


The Strength of a Spider

by CheekyKichi



Category: One Punch Man
Genre: AU, Crack, Gen, M/M, Spiderman AU, mild squick: skin lesions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:26:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5965621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyKichi/pseuds/CheekyKichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>one punch man. spiderman 2002 au. yep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Strength of a Spider

**Author's Note:**

> Please forward all complaints to [sheepnamedpig](http://sheepnamedpig.tumblr.com/) if reading the above causes involuntary spasms, spontaneous combustion, or other unsavory symptoms. Please do not consume materials under any circumstances. The author will now proceed to dive headfirst into a trashcan. Thank you and good day.

Who am I? Are you sure that you would like to know? The story of my life is not for the faint of heart. If someone had said that it was a quaint little tale, and that I was an average man without a care in the world, I can say with certainty that the person in question would be lying. But allow me to assure you that this story-

“Genos! Twenty words or less!”

-is definitely worth telling.

 

* * *

 

 

It started as a simple field trip; a field trip that Genos Parker had a special interest in not just because he was required to for the sake of the high school newspaper. This particular field trip was to the Museum of Evolution, whose many studies and essays published about the theories of evolution Genos had pored through countless times. Today, he and his classmates were going to see the arachnid exhibit.

Genos barely noticed the Rolls Royce pull up to the front of the museum, so impressively glossy that it must have been new, as he walked with his classmates in line to enter. Someone shoulder checked him to cut past, and Genos didn’t even have to adjust his skewed glasses to know it was Tiger. He called him Tiger, of course, because that is what he made it loud and clear he wanted to be called even to the point of threatening the teachers. Genos had never wondered why, because the only thing he needed to know was that Tiger preferred him over all the other nerds in their graduating class to pick on. He didn’t care much more beyond that.

Genos tugged at the thick strap around his neck, making sure that the expensive camera attached to it wasn’t damaged or otherwise sabotaged (as his last three were). Luckily, Tiger didn’t feel the inclination to break his camera today, and so he soldiered on until it was his turn to be admitted into the museum. It was with great relief that, after a polite smile to the receptionist as he received his ticket, Genos was informed that they weren’t going to be strictly grouped until the actual arachnid presentation. So he shuffled off, camera in both hands and eyes attentive on every specimen available for him to peruse - which of course, there were. This was the Museum of Evolution after all, and so they displayed everything from the most advanced electron microscope on the western seaboard to the slides magnified by said microscope to show the smallest genetically engineered sentient organism their executive scientist had successfully created. Genos had never seen him in person, but he’d read enough rumors on the internet to know that even the head assistant to the creator of the Museum was an experiment himself - a human brain placed in the body of a cybernetically altered silverback gorilla. It was fascinating.

Genos found his infatuation with a certain species of chimeric lizard interrupted by an entirely different infatuation, as he noticed a particularly unique hoodie wrapped around a particularly unique person out of his peripherals. With a smile that Genos hoped was not too eager, he approaches that person’s back, taking the time to moon at his unkempt and stiff, but strangely charming mop of hair while his crush lazily watched the row of cases containing a variety of genetically enhanced cockroaches.

“Saitama!” he said. “I did not think I would see you here today.” It was only half of a lie; Genos knew Saitama visited the museum, but usually it was only Tuesdays and Fridays at exactly 3:35 pm to 3:50 pm.

“Ah, hey Genos,” drawled the man of his dreams, as he turned his head just enough to acknowledge the teenager. “You’re here for school, right? And I told you, it’s SJ.”

Saitama Jane Watson - an unfortunate name born of a father who very much wanted a daughter and a strong-willed mother who immigrated from N-City. Most would choose to omit that middle name altogether, but Saitama owned it, kept it a part of him in a way that was unique to his apathetic, casual personality. Genos admired that about him. Genos admired everything about him.

“I am sorry, Saitama.”

Before Saitama could complain at him, and he certainly did look like he was going to judging by the slight furrow in his eyebrows, a teacher approached Genos and cheerfully but forcefully ushered him into the group. Disappointment wilted his shoulders, but he acquiesced because after all, he was here for academic purposes. It was when he was taking pictures of the tour guide, rattling off the number of specimens the museum had on display, that he heard a voice to his right.

“So you’re into older men?”

Genos clamped his finger down on the trigger, accidentally turning on the flash and making everyone turn around to look at him. He really, really hoped his face was not as red as it felt at the moment, and after a stammered “sorry” the crowd resumed not paying attention to him. He heard a chuckle, and he turned to face the source; a girl around his age in a sleek dark green dress and a plush, white fur coat that looked more expensive than his uncle’s mortgage. Genos squinted. “Are you the transfer student for this year?” he asked, hoping that sounded as courteously chilly as he intended it to be. The smirk responded enough, but the rest of her decided to speak as well.

“Yeah,” said the new student. “Name’s Fubuki.” If Genos had to guess, she probably attended one of the prestigious private schools in N-City and flunked out. “I like your tastes,” Fubuki said, jerking a thumb in Saitama’s direction while he was idly picking his nose. “He’s a little weird, though.”

“Welcome to Z-City High School,” Genos replied coolly, turning his head to face the speaker for the museum, “and please be quiet. There is a presentation going on.”

As it happened, they’d finally arrived at the reason the field trip was organized in the first place: the Museum of Evolution’s impressively vast arachnid section. To Genos’s somewhat-bridled glee, Saitama had moved to look at this exhibit with his glass. He could see him a ways in front of the tour guide, looking over a spider in particular that, as the speaker put it, “spins an intricate funnel-shaped web whose strands have a tensile strength proportionately equal to the high-tension wires used in bridges.” With as little commotion as he could muster, given the commotion that he had already mustered, Genos nudged his way to the front of the crowd, the lens on his camera zooming in on that specific species when he felt someone push his back hard enough for him to stumble forward. The shutter closed with a short click, the preview showing that Genos had taken a captivating picture of the museum tile floor. He straightened up, bespectacled eyes lidding in weary acceptance, and suddenly Fubuki said something that thoroughly and completely surprised him.

“Leave him alone,” she said.

“Or what?” asked a sneering voice from the left that Genos could recognize as Tiger’s groupie, Snek (another unfortunate name). Then, Tiger himself apparently joined in from the far right of this apparent peanut gallery.

“Or his father will fire your father,” he mocked. Genos really didn’t think it was funny enough to warrant a high-five in the background. Tiger grabbed Fubuki’s shoulder and forcibly turned her to face him. “What’s Daddy gonna do? Sue me?”

“No,” was the blunt reply, although in Genos’s opinion the withering look Fubuki gave him was a more than adequate answer, “but my sister will. I’m sure you’ve heard of Hurricane Industries, haven’t you?”

Their little banter was cut short by a teacher hushing them on threat of failing the course, but Genos was able to thoroughly bask in the sudden terrified blanching of Tiger’s face before the group was herded off to the scorpion section of the arachnids. Genos stayed behind, partially because he still needed a photo of the spiders and partially because he was looking for an excuse.

“Excuse me, Saitama,” said Genos as he held up his camera, “may I take a picture of you? For the school paper. Having a person in a shot is a requirement, and having an alumnus would be even better.”

Although he definitely looked irritated, it seemed Saitama gave up the fight on his nickname for now and instead turned, a vapid smile turning the corners of his lips up while Genos adjusted the focus on his camera in order for the perfect shot. Then, just a hair of a second after he’d taken the picture, Saitama’s smile shifted into a concerned frown. Saitama answered him before Genos could ask why he was frowning like that.

“Genos, what’s that on your hand?”

As Genos looked, there was something on his hand - specifically, on the third knuckle of his index finger. He flinched, and in hindsight he should have realized the sudden movement would have triggered such a response from the spider with the gold-and-black thorax on his finger. He should have remembered that spiders were very sensitive, and some would think contractions or sudden movement would be the struggling of food. What Genos did know, at that moment, was that this particular spider’s bite hurt like a bitch.

He swore and flailed the spider off of his knuckle, nearly dropping his camera were it not for his grip on it with the other hand. A quick inspection showed an angry red welt quickly swelling on his knuckle, but otherwise it seemed normal. “Ah, sorry, Saitama,” he said. “I should have been paying attention.”

That didn’t seem to quell Saitama’s worry, strangely. “Dude,” he said, “are you okay?” Genos felt his face heat up. That’s weird, he’d never blushed that much before, even around his crush. In fact, he was starting to feel warm all over, not just on his face.

“I am flattered by your concern,” Genos said. “I think I will be fine. It is not as if I was bitten by one of those, hm?” He makes a vague gesture at the cases behind Saitama, smiling. At least, he hoped he was smiling. Whatever expression on his face died when he noticed that was was originally a benign welt had swelled in record time to what looked like the kind of lump he’d get if he were to try his hand at fighting Tiger. It was purpling with the severity of which it had grown. Genos noticed one of the cases had a label across it, in laminated white parchment with an elegant Times New Roman font in 14-point typed across it: “MISSING. REPORT IMMEDIATELY IF FOUND.”

Genos remembered that case. He remembered it from two weeks ago, when he’d finally worked up the courage to approach the dashing man that had earned his affections since childhood. He remembered a museum hand rambling on at them about how that particular spider, the one that was now missing, was a genetic fusion of at least three different kinds of recluse, and how they’d had trouble containing it because the strength of its corrosive venom could eat through even the most resilient kind of casing used to cage it.

Before his eyes the boil on his hand wilted, caving in on itself in a mess of liquified flesh and tissue. Genos felt his body swaying, his vision blurring, and before he completely lost consciousness with the distorted sounds of startled crowd gasps and Saitama calling his name, he had one last thought:

I’m melting.

 

 

When Genos woke up, it was dark. He opened his eyes, and thought it was a foggy brain that caused his view of the world to be overlaid with a yellow haze. He was lying on some sort of metal table, he figured by the coldness against his back, and overhead was a ceiling laden with wiring and metal tubes. While Genos knew the room was dimly lit, he could strangely pick out the finer details of the tubing in the ceiling. He heard a voice to his right.

“Oh, thank goodness,” said the man. “You’re awake.”

“Uncle Stench!” Genos immediately sat up, but when he did, he felt a sharp yank on his torso and then, as soon as it had left, darkness returned to him. He didn’t know how much time had passed before he opened his eyes again, and this time, he could see his uncle’s wrinkled face pinched in happy exasperation above him.

“Be careful,” said Stench. “Don’t move so much.” He sighed, then, and it was with no small amount of anxiety that Genos saw his eyes darken grimly. “We have a lot to talk about.”

It was at that point that Genos looked down, actually seeing the huge plug that stuck out of his chest. Fear anchored in his stomach, and, trembling, he raised his right arm to his face, to look at his hand where he remembered the spider had bit him. He wiggled steel fingers that weren’t his, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or more terrified that Stench recognized his expression, sympathy clouding the old ex-engineer’s eyes. He moved his arm as if to pat Genos’s knee, but then decided against it to fold his hands in his lap instead. “I’m sorry,” he said after a while. “They got you to the hospital as fast as they could, but most of your organs were almost completely gone by that point.” He saw his uncle’s fingers clench and shiver, and a hardness form in his jaw that wasn’t there before. “The staff at the museum chalked it up to an unlucky accident, and refused to pay for any damages,” Stench said through gritted teeth. “I’m sorry, my boy. You know if I had any money I’d sue the pants off of them-”

“It is okay, Uncle Stench,” Genos said, and reached out to lightly grasp his uncle’s hand partly to comfort him and partly because he couldn’t bear to look at it anymore. “What… what happened to me?”

Every second that Stench took to answer felt like 10 years. “The hospital was about to say you were a lost cause,” he said eventually. “I had to do something, so I kidnapped you and used what I had left in the basement to keep you alive.” He looked down, and lightly squeezed Genos’s metal hand. “I’m so sorry, Genos. It was the only thing I could think of.”

Genos did sit up then, careful not to jostle the plug in his chest, and looked down at his body. Wires and steel plates made up his legs, with a hospital gown covering his groin (for modesty, he supposed). Both of his arms were similarly made of metal, with some sort of insular silicon to enable fluid movement. And, aside from of course the giant plug jutting out of the middle of his chest, his torso seemed to be constructed similarly to the rest of him. Everything responded fine to his nerves’ commands; he could see his thighs shifting, his shoulders wiggling up and down, his chest rising and falling with breath that he still needed. The only thing he couldn’t figure out, of course, was the yellow that tinted everything he saw.

“Uncle Stench,” Genos said, “may I have a mirror?”

He saw the hesitation in Stench getting up to do as he asked, but he still did it, briefly disappearing upstairs in what Genos knew was their meek little house to fetch him a hand-mirror. He grabbed it, and stranger with black and gold eyes stared back at him when he looked. His hair was the same, but his glasses were gone and his face was an odd kind of smooth that Genos could only guess was some sort plastic replacing actual skin. This “skin” was significantly paler than he used to be, and the stranger that was now his face had defined cheekbones and a jawline, lacking the baby-fat he’d still retained even at 17 years old. At least Stench thought to make him handsome - as handsome as a cyborg could be.

Genos swallowed thickly, and wondered if he still even needed to eat. “Uncle,” said Genos, “will you get in trouble? When you were laid off from the company, they had said you could keep your materials as long as-”

“As long as I never publicly used them, yes,” replied Stench. “And I’m not, am I Genos? Besides, you should be worrying about yourself.” He cleared his throat, and Genos could see a brief flash of fear in Stench’s face before his lips pressed together in determination. “If you don’t want to be like this,” he said, “please let me know. I acted recklessly - selfishly, to be honest. I didn’t ask what you wanted because I didn’t have the time to, but I’m asking now. If… if this isn’t what you want, if this is too much for you, please don’t hold back.” He cracked a sheepish, pained grin that tugged at Genos’s hypothetical heart. “Your old uncle can handle anything.”

“No, Uncle,” Genos said. “Thank you for risking so much for me. I will try my best to acclimate.”


End file.
